Respite
by Roxal
Summary: The Blitz, 1941. Britain shows strength through attacks on the home front. America lends a hand. Warnings: None. Status: Oneshot. US


Although he had grown by leaps and bounds--physically, mentally, territorially--he did not feel embarrassed waking in the middle of the night to cross the hall into England's room.

The Blitz had been continuing for months with no end in sight. The New Year of 1941 had come and gone and hope along with it, though the people of London still held their heads high with resolve through it all. Americans, so detached from foreign wars in the past, heard American voices on the radio reporting the devastation and determination they witnessed, and their hearts went out to the ones they would deem allies in this war. They could not leave the Old Empire in need, and America's boss sent the young nation to England's house for aid.

America woke to the thunderous sound of high explosive destroying the city around him; the light of the blast nearly blinding him in the dark of the night. He did not even think before he realized his feet had found the floor and his hand was wrapped around the doorknob to his once-brother's room. Once inside, he didn't even think to question his own judgment.

He was greeted by a black silhouette against a deep blue window--straight-backed, legs crossed, tea cup and saucer in hand. America pretended not to hear the quiet jangle of china under the explosions outside or see the slight tremor in England's hand, no matter how illuminated it became, stark against the bright lights outside. It feels natural to him to close the gap between them, and for the tremors to stop once he sets his hand on the older nation's shoulder.

England does not start, only looks up at the other blond's face to check his expression. "I apologize for the noise," he says, out of reflex, clearing his throat and taking a sip of his tea. "I take it you couldn't sleep?"

America lets out a huff and moves his hand from England's shoulder to his own hip. "I can take a little noise," he retorts indignantly, "I was more worried about you--" a pause as another crash fills the air. England has to look away from the light reflected in America's glasses. America pretends not to notice that too, but still asks "are you okay?"

England almost laughs. "As I can be."

There is another long pause as England sips his tea, not noticing how it's gone cold since he brewed it before bed. America stands beside him silently, looking anywhere but out the window, settling mostly on England's strong, stable hands, no longer shaking; no longer alone.

"Thank you," the older male says evenly, watching streetlight glint off his tea cup. He is prepared when America slaps him on the back.

"Don't worry about it," he replies, "we need you, right?" He grins cockily, and England rolls his eyes. It feels so natural.

"Make sure you don't use all your supplies, though, you dunce," he reprimands out of habit, and he keeps on even as America laughs, "you may need them someday."

"We're staying neutral," America states confidently, "so I'll do whatever I want, thankyouverymuch. I'll make sure you get through this war."

"You will ration accordingly; your people will need those supplies--"

"They'll be fine, I'm just gonna make sure you make it through this; you know, rebuild and stuff."

"Don't be ridiculous. They need you--" England says, standing and setting his tea on the windowsill.

"_I_ need you--" America says before he can stop himself. A blast illuminates their matching reddened cheeks.

America clears his throat.

"You're the Allied stronghold of Europe," he says, shifting to strategy, playing the hero, "we need you to stay that way." England sighs.

"I'm fine," he replies, silently jealous of America's height as he reaches up to put a hand on his shoulder, "I promise I'll be fine."

"I know," America says, leaning down out of new habit so England can reach, and he does, pushing hair off of the taller nation's forehead to kiss it as he has so many times before. It isn't embarrassing, it's natural, and it feels just as natural when America lifts his head to look at the older male; when they lean in, and their lips connect for the first time.

It was brief, but it was deep, and in the moment--in the silence, and the darkness, and the comfort of England's embrace, and the warmth of America's breath on his cheek--there was safety.


End file.
